


until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest

by nagia



Series: sure to lure someone bad [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Gen, Trigger Warning: Abortion References, Trigger Warning: Animal Mauling, Wolf Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/nagia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was no need for the alpha werewolf version of… of, I don't fucking know, standing on the hood of your car with a boombox and blaring Peter Gabriel."</p>
            </blockquote>





	until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest

**Author's Note:**

> This is set about seven years down the line, after a sequel to "even bad wolves can be good" that I'm, uh, still writing. It's pure self-indulgence, but hey, I've been employed for a whole month now. I'm allowed to be self indulgent. (And yes, the other fics are all chugging along. The next chapter of "bad wolves" should be live by next Friday, "cast our fevers in stone," even sooner than that, and "never caught a rabbit," should be live by Monday or Tuesday.)

Something crashes through the woods outside her father's house. Stiles looks up from her laptop, from the list of preparations she needs to make and research into what the hell she's going to do now.

The crashing continues, followed by an animalistic shriek, a grunt, and a heavy thud. A dog bays, triumphant, and Dad stomps downstairs.

Stiles, who is already fitting sounds together with the events of the past week, closes the laptop and stands. She finds Dad with his feet just barely on the kitchen's linoleum floor, one elbow against the doorframe in an exhausted-looking lean. He's swiped one hand over his eyes, and even though she can't really see his face with the dim lighting and the angle, she's never seen him look so _old_.

She's only twenty-three, and even she feels old right now. For good and sufficient reasons.

She asks, quiet — god, she's been so quiet since she got out of there. Has it been freaking Dad? — but firm, "Is it Derek?"

"Go see for yourself. Jesus," Dad says, his voice still hoarse from all the long nights he must have spent searching.

She steps into the kitchen and opens the back door. The first thing she sees is a pool of blood, still running in tiny rivers, on the concrete of their back patio. She swallows and refuses to think about thick, sticky lines of blood on another concrete floor she's only been away from for two weeks. Instead, she follows the blood trail to the source: a downed buck, its antlers a glorious spread, its eyes open and glassy in the kitchen light.

Beyond the deer, in her darkened yard, something's eyes glow red. She can make out something huge and dog-shaped.

Derek herded a deer through the Preserve, all the way out to her father's back yard, and then killed it right on her father's patio. She's going to have to take the pressure washer to the concrete, later.

But that's for later. For all that his barking was triumphant, Derek's body language has turned miserable. He's slouching, ears pricked back, head hanging low. He's even tucked his tail between his legs. God.

"Derek," she says, trying to keep her voice gentle. "Come here."

After some coaxing that involves a soft voice, insistent patting of her thigh, and even crouching, Derek approaches. He stands near the buck, anxiously shifting his weight in the light from the kitchen. Lifts one paw and puts it down, then another, then shakes his head, ears flicking.

"You did good," she says, soothing, and rests one hand on the buck. She brushes her fingertips along its forehead, as if admiring, and then gently presses her fingers around the clawmarks in its gaping throat. She's done grosser things. She did grosser things only a month ago. "You did a good job, bringing me this. Thank you."

Derek sits, arranges his paws neatly. He cocks his head at her. Like he knows she doesn't actually admire the heavy fucking dead deer on her dad's patio, but it makes him feel better to pretend she does. Or maybe he's just trying to pull that trick that makes people think dogs understand them. It wouldn't have been easy to tell if he'd been human; considering the weird complications of the alpha shift, and how his brain works right now, any idea could be right. Or wrong.

Eventually, she manages to persuade him to come inside. Under her father's heavy, disapproving gaze, she leads Derek up the stairs to her bathroom. She points to the tub, and Derek slouches, whining, but then climbs in.

Stiles reaches for him, rests a hand on his muzzle. She teases him by using his nose to shake his head around, which elicits a slow, thudding tail wag from Derek. After that, she gets out the dog grooming kit she keeps under her sink and begins, carefully, to run a comb through his fur. She ends up pulling leaves out of his thick fur, tossing them aside, and has to cut a few twigs away. She makes him give her his paws — something he hates as much as any dog, always gently trying to jerk back out of her grasp — and finds bits of broken glass and small thorns stuck into the sensitive pads. 

He whines when she pulls them out, tail still thumping sadly against the bathroom wall. Blood flows in thin, quick streams, and then stops.

"You're alright," she tells him, keeps up a gentle stream of nonsense as she stands and grabs the showerhead. She pulls it down to Derek's level, then aims it at her hand and turns the water on. She takes a minute or so to let the water warm, then takes another minute to make sure she's at a good temperature.

She has to card her fingers through his fur in order to soak him down to the skin. Derek's fluffy tail gradually stops wagging and makes its way back between his legs again. He stands in her bathtub and hunches in on himself, sodden and self-loathing. Stiles's heart clenches in her chest.

He enjoys the shampooing, though. He always does. Stiles doesn't bother with an anti-flea shampoo. Not this time, even though he probably needs it. He's still so distressed that she uses a honey-and-oat based soap she knows he likes. He seems comforted by the smell — or at least, he relaxes; his tail unwinds from between his legs, and he stops slumping so much. 

He shakes carefully after she drains the water from the tub, lets her rub him all over with a towel. He even begins to nuzzle into her drying him. He whines when she leads him to sit on the rug by her sink and whines more — and louder — when she turns the blow dryer on him. But he's patient with it, lets her blowdry and brush him. The brushing soothes her almost as much as it does him, and by the time she can run the brush through his fur without snagging, she feels both wrung out and satisfied. Derek is practically dozing underneath her touch, and she's lulled herself into a contemplative trance.

"You're kind of an idiot," she says to him, softly. "I needed space. But it wasn't your fault. Neither of us asked for that, and you were doing your best to protect me."

Derek flicks an ear, but doesn't otherwise respond. Stiles reaches out and runs her fingers over the soft fur of one pointed ear, which twitches.

"I don't know what to do, Derek. All I know is I'll be damned if I let the hunters win _now_ , when I'm free."

Derek turns his head to look at her, then just sort of drops onto his side. He squirms until his head is resting against her knee. Automatically, she reaches out to brush her fingers over his face. She doesn't do much more than that, though. The bath was necessary, but otherwise, she tries not to treat him too much like a dog.

He whines.

"You do know I'm not mad at you, right? There was no need for the alpha werewolf version of… of, I don't fucking know, standing on the hood of your car with a boombox and blaring Peter Gabriel. Absolutely none of this was your fault."

His tail thumps into the bathroom floor, and Stiles leans her head back against the bathroom cabinet. Jesus. She imagines the clean waiting room, Derek's hand in hers, like the first time. The sterile exam room, the ultrasound, the handful of pills and the few days' worth of blood. It could be that easy — except, this time, nothing about it would be that easy, because this time, she'd be letting the hunters win.

All they'd wanted, when they didn't get their "answer," was a dead Hale.

"God, we're both so dumb," she says. "What are we going to do, Derek? What am _I_ supposed to do?"

She knows, deep inside, exactly what Derek will do if she doesn't go to the white waiting room or the antiseptic-smelling exam room, if there's no handful of pills. She can't actually _picture_ him remodeling one of the rooms in his big Addams family house, but she knows he will. Hell, he'll remodel two rooms, and he'll never say anything about it.

Wolves are pack hunters, social animals with strong ties, and the packs of actual wolves are _families_. Alpha males are fathers, usually several times over.

"Are we going to do the smart thing, or are we going to tell the hunters where they can shove it?"

Derek only thumps his tail against the bathroom floor and looks at her, wolf-blue eyes patient. He doesn't try to tell her what they both already know: the choice is hers, and he'll support her however he can, no matter which she chooses.


End file.
